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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27295954">As the Snake Wraps Around The Lion</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/erroreros/pseuds/erroreros'>erroreros</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brother Bonding Time, Hurt Luther Hargreeves, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Luther Hargreeves Deserves Better, Luther Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Luther Hargreeves-centric, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy is So Done, POV Luther Hargreeves, Self-Harm, Soft Luther Hargreeves, Young Luther Hargreeves, Young Number Five | The Boy, also it's a little OOC uhhh, neither of which is heavy! just watch out for it, the pov here is a little wacky but it goes from five to luther, they're kids my dude, you repressed little shits</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:35:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,725</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27295954</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/erroreros/pseuds/erroreros</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eventually, he knocks upon the door, hyper-focused on keeping his strength in check to avoid more structural damage. His eyes fought to release, but Luther wiped them away, once again keeping it quiet-- like a kettle attempting not to steam at the boiling water.<br/>“Dad?” he asks into the empty air, voice attempting not to quiver at the density of it all.</p><p>Luther has a nightmare and goes to talk to Reginald. It goes as well as any interaction Reginald has with children. Five is there to pick up the pieces that Luther tries to sweep under the rug.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Luther Hargreeves &amp; Reginald Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy &amp; Luther Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy &amp; Reginald Hargreeves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>79</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>As the Snake Wraps Around The Lion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi guys! Woooo! Another fic! This one's fucking long as all shit (for me at least)! Fuck!<br/>Anyways, so, a lot of Luther's behavior and feelings here are all things I fucking took from his older self. Since I think he repressed shit when he was a kid so if he seems a bit more sad uh, that's why<br/>ALSO, still love writing Five. This kid can fit so much repression and sass into it<br/>Hope ya'll enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>Luther’s hands shook nervously as he found himself in front of his father’s chambers. There was an inner breath of shamefulness as the sound of his father’s pen echoed in the darkness of the house. His spit was swallowed, his eyes dried of tears, his arms holding his sides. There, once again, was that lingering silence. Eventually, he knocks upon the door, hyper-focused on keeping his strength in check to avoid more structural damage. His eyes fought to release, but Luther wiped them away, once again keeping it quiet-- like a kettle attempting not to steam at the boiling water. </p><p>“Dad?” he asks into the empty air, voice attempting not to quiver at the density of it all.</p><p>“What is it, Number One?” the sharp voice responds with a hidden ferocity.</p><p>His father’s voice was always so focused on maintaining and controlling itself. Another one of Dad’s many talents, the sheepish Luther thought to himself, subconsciously comparing him to his father without thought.</p><p>“...can we talk?”</p><p>The silence of the room echoed out, making Luther’s hair stand on its end. A few moments pass- he’d like to believe the other was pausing to think, but deep down, Luther knew his father was busy. He is a smart and hard-working man, after all. <em>Far smarter than the rest of us</em>, he thought. The silence felt deafening, the pen screeching to a halt unnerving him more than he ever imagined it would. After a minute or so, he finally got a response.</p><p>“Well don’t just <em>stand </em>there, open the door! I cannot waste time on your needless desires, Number One, and you know as such.”</p><p>Guilt festered in Luther’s stomach, his breath slightly hitching as he felt his fingers dig into his palm. He’s so stupid, what a mistake this was. He knew father was busy, and yet he contacted him regardless. Shaking a bit now, Luther opened the door, standing at the frame. He knew better than to make any more mistakes than he already has. Stay pristine, Number One. You are not a rule breaker. But you are a <em> coward. </em> </p><p>“Uh...Dad? What do you do if a...uh…” he says, feeling the words trip on his tongue.</p><p>“Spit it out, Number One! A leader mustn't dilly dally with such hysterics,” Luther feels his father spit out from his desk, eyes lingering on words in books Luther cannot understand. </p><p>He gulps, but not loudly, fingernails digging into the palm with force. They were going to leave marks--at least hindering his ability to write without provoking this very memory. But that didn’t matter much to Luther, no, the pain never much mattered in the long run. If he must fall so that the rest must not, he will willingly bleed. A martyr, yes, Number One could become a martyr. If he could not be a leader, he could be a martyr. This fear-- the overwhelming distant feeling of sheer failure-- sprung up again, this time provoking the feeling of bile dancing at the back of his throat. </p><p>“What would someone do if they...uh…” he shakes, (come on. Luther, be the leader, bold, loud) “...had a nightmare?”</p><p>The words come out quiet, but audible. He can feel his fingers trembling now, adrenaline kicking in as hides his hands behind his back. Luther wishes for his father not to laugh, and his wish is granted, for better or for worse. The pen held by his father continued to move, regardless of Luther’s worrying statement. <em>A mistake</em>, his mind screams, <em>this was a mistake</em>.</p><p>“They are nothing but a tedious thing,” he hears his father say, shrouded in shadow, “the strong do not have night terrors, Number One.”</p><p>For a moment, Reginald looks up, eyes slowly meeting Number One’s. The child can feel himself holding his breath involuntarily, his throughs berating him for his childish antics. He stands there for but a moment, the hands behind him clenching to stop shaking. There is so much to ask-- is he weak? Does his father already know of him waking every few nights in a cold sweat? But he doesn’t ask, his mind commenting instead. <em> Of course, Dad knows, </em> he thinks, blue eyes looking into the light of Reginald’s desk lamp. <em> Dad is smart, smarter than all of us. Smarter than you. </em>So, of course, he knows, he knows everything-- every mistake and transgression. The thought of his father’s omnipotence was always comforting and terrifying. Though Luther cannot afford to make mistakes, it does mean that, finally, he wasn’t alone. Even if his siblings didn’t like him, even if he doesn’t think too highly of himself-- Dad was there. </p><p>Dad was always there.</p><p>“What are you standing there for?” Reginald asks, accusatory, scorn audible in his tone, “I don’t have all day to deal with your nonsense.”</p><p>“Sorry,” Luther responds quickly, bowing his head a bit as his fingernails, having already dug into his skin.</p><p>His feet move before his mind can register, hands shaking with a newfound intensity. As he walked away, steps echoing through the large house, his eyes looked at his hands. <em>You’ve done it again Number One</em>, his father’s voice echoes in the back of his mind. <em>You’ve revealed a weakness</em>. Luther shakily inhales and exhales, attempting to gather his thoughts and words. At the center of the living room of the gigantic house, he stops. Bandaids. Bandages. He needs those. The boy begins to walk, heading downstairs to the makeshift play den of younger days. He didn’t use this area much anymore. After all, he was growing. An adult does not play with children. Luther tries to recollect the memories of his medical classes, the notes upon notes he wrote in full attention. However, no lesson specified what to do when one’s disgusting fingernails dug into fresh flesh. It was always the new things that stumped him, the outside of the box, the breaking into the new form. <em> Klaus is good at that</em>, Luther’s mind internally comments, <em> even if he’s high most of the time</em>. His eyes pass the butcher designs on the walls as he moves, careful to not make sound, not wanting to attract Mom. </p><p>Mom...that name felt so foreign to him. <em> It is a machine</em>, his dad would dutifully remind him. <em> It cannot feel, care, or breathe-- it simply does as designed</em>. Diego always liked <em>it </em>-- the robot, that is. He’d speak with it on end, even after his stutter had been grown out of. And yet, Diego had always gotten on his case about him being close to Dad. Why couldn’t Diego understand?! Dad isn’t a bad guy-- he’s at least better than Mom! Mom’s not even breathing, she’s made of silicone and metal, or whatever else a robot is made out of. And he also wasn’t drooling over Dad like a dog-- Diego did that was Mom all the time. His hands move over to the band-aids box, carefully picking it up, careful not to use his maximum strength on accident. Steady, just like Dad instructed.</p><p>Steady.</p><p>“What are you doing here?”</p><p>Luther lets out a small yelp, the box of band-aids being crushed by his uncareful strength. Looking around suddenly, his eyes spy his sibling. Five. Wait-- <em> Five</em>? What is <em> Five </em>doing here? It’s late-- does Five have night terrors like him? <em> No, no he doesn’t</em>, his mind chides at him. <em> The strong don’t have nightmares, after all. </em></p><p>“...Did you fall on your head?” Five asks with a sneer, crossing his arms and cocking an eyebrow.</p><p>Luther sighed in response, rolling his eyes. Frankly, he didn’t have a good comeback in mind. Banter-- good banter -- was never his strong suit. <em> That’s a good thing, </em> he thinks, <em> right? </em> It just means he has less lip to accidentally lash out at Dad as Diego does. Not that he would, either way, it’s just -- uh.</p><p>He’ll table this thought for a later (never) conversation.</p><p>“What are you doing here, Five? It’s late.” Luther says, steely, his grip loosening on the now-crushed box.</p><p>“No, no, no. You are not, and I repeat-- you are <em> not </em> pulling that shit on me.”</p><p>“Language,” Luther says quietly.</p><p>“I’m not blind, you bubbling buffoon. You’re gripping a box of band-aids, and you snuck out to talk to <strong>Reginald</strong>.”</p><p>Luther’s eyes widened, finding himself swallowing his spit as he felt himself begin to sweat.</p><p>“How did you--”</p><p>“I’m not exactly deaf, Luther. I can hear your elephant footsteps from my room.”</p><p>He was awake, of course he was awake. The way his brother could always get under his skin astounded Luther. Five always gripped and bit into his deepest insecurities like a wild raccoon fighting for its life. Either he wears his heart on his sleeve, or Five is just...<em>really</em> smart. Luther hopes it’s only the latter.</p><p>“What the fuck <em> happened</em>, Luther?” </p><p>Five’s voice echoes in a guttural snarl, like a dog trying to intimidate him. However, considering Luther’s height, weight, and ability-- it’s more like a chihuahua growing than anything else.</p><p>“...I got uh. Cuts. On my hands,” Luther murmurs, unfurling his slightly bloodied palm.</p><p>“...What the fuck did <strong>Reginald</strong> do?”</p><p>“What? No--I just uh...” Luther stammers, <em> come on, play dumb, </em>“...fell some ...stairs," <em>fuck, not that dumb--</em></p><p>Five looks at him with a furrowed brow, pursed lips, and a frustrated expression.</p><p>“Do I look like an idiot to you?” Five asks rhetorically, squinting at his two-brain-celled brother. </p><p>“...' s worth a' shot…” Luther mumbles, rubbing his arm somewhat anxiously, eyes looking from the bandages, his hand, then Five. He continues, saying, “...I accidentally uh, dug into my own skin.”</p><p>“...how do you do that <em> accidentally</em>, exactly?”</p><p>Five always knew how to dig for information. He wasn’t the heart of their little team (<em>that’d be Ben by a long shot</em>), but he had a good eye. Well, at least, Luther thought so. His sisters would disagree. However, having no real response, he opens his mouth to say another lie. But, soon after, he closes his maw, instead, looking away in shame. Like a kicked puppy. </p><p>“I … I dunno,” is what is able to escape, Luther’s blue eyes almost cowering from Five’s brown ones.</p><p>For Number One, this felt cowardly. Submissive. Luther felt his palms clam up again, fingers starting to dig into fresh--</p><p>“Luther, what the hell are you doing?”</p><p>His hand felt a light slap, his finger uncurling, loosening, eyes shooting to Five in a bit of shock.</p><p>“I-I-- uh, I--” Luther stammers, blinking rapidly.</p><p>“Luther… god-- just-- tell me what’s <em>actually </em>wrong. Can no one in his family function?”</p><p>Five’s words were harsh, but they held a slight cadence to them. Behind that stone-code facade of sarcasm, spite, and apathy, help-- genuine concern. Luther could see Five’s hands shake, where that be with anger or worry. The taller one gulps down his pride, inhaling, and exhaling. </p><p>“...uh. I went to go talk to Dad.”</p><p>Five can feel himself sigh, almost involuntarily, already knowing that basic amount of information. His fists shake a bit, eyes-rolling. Of all people, Five knew <strong>Reginald</strong> as a cold man. Ruthless tactics, bitter stares, and a dislike of children. It’s what made it so easy to toy with <strong>Reginald’s</strong> antics. Though for the many reasons Five hated him, the constant number one reason was what he did to his siblings. Klaus’ sobbings, the shouting fights with Diego, ignoring Allison and Vanya… Five was “beyond” such fatherly manipulations, but his siblings weren’t. Most of all Luther. By <strong>Reginald’s</strong> side, his royal puppet, the second housemaid besides Mother. Of course, <em>Luther</em> would talk to <strong>Reginald</strong>-- unaware of the emotional void festered within him.</p><p>“...and… why?” Five asks, clearly already exasperated.</p><p>“...’cause...Dad’s… ya’ know, wise. Well, uh, he’s smarter than me, at least. But uh, that’s um …”</p><p>Luther’s unfinished phrase echoes into the air. <em> That’s not a hard feat</em>, Luther’s mind finishes for him. His face drops slightly, insecurity festering proudly, seeping into each bone, muscle, and vein within his body. </p><p>Five, on the other hand, stared at him with deep disgust. He was trying to hold it back visibly, but it’s a bit tricky to do so. <strong>Reginald</strong> … <em> smart? </em> He’s quite book smart (even then, Five was being generous to the old man), even Five would have to admit that man held odd documents of study--but wise? Five wore that he had more humanity than that man ever did, which, <em> in his opinion</em>, was saying something. <strong>Reginald</strong> didn’t have wisdom-- no -- he had dementia. Regardless, Five sighs, looking back at Luther.</p><p>“<strong>Reginald</strong> knows jack shit about <em>anything</em>, Luther--” Five begins.</p><p>“Hey--language--” Luther says, cutting him off, repeating his phrase like a broken record.</p><p>“If you have a <em> real </em>question, ask me. Or ask Ben. Or ask any other person in this damn house. Don’t ask <strong>Regin</strong>--”</p><p>The sound of heels clicking (<em>click, clack</em>) echoes through the surrounding hallway.</p><p>“<em><strong>Boys</strong>? </em>“</p><p>Her voice rings out, as rich as her polka-dotted dress, outfit lively as ever, but her eyes bitter and devoid. Mother. Mom. Their guardian, their drone. </p><p>“Shit…” Five swore under his breath.</p><p>“Mom’s heard us,” Luther says in a hushed tone.</p><p>“I can <em>tell</em>, Luther. I have <em> ears </em> -- What is with you and <em> insisting </em> that I’m deaf?” Five spits in a tone that makes Luther’s expression fall into a deep, visible, regret.</p><p>Five latches onto Luther’s arm, grabbing at his bigger brother’s larger wrist. </p><p>“Don’t make a sound,” he says as if Luther knows what’s coming.</p><p>“What?” Luther asks, definitely not.</p><p>In that moment comes a large, blinding light. Five, once again, was tearing space and time apart-- Luther enraptured at the sight. The bigger brother couldn’t help but be fascinated each time Five created a rift (well, both fascinated and jealous). Taking Luther by the wrist, the pair go into the self-made wormhole-- one leading to Luther’s room. The trip is obviously flawless for Five, practice, experimenting, and overall ability paying off. Luther, on the other hand, felt a lump in his throat, moving his hands to his own mouth, topping to his knees. It was disorienting and frightening, despite being such a small jump, stomach churning at the sudden alien movement. Five watches Luther cough for a moment-- quickly registering the situation at hand-- before moving to his brother’s aid. His hand first checked Luther’s heartbeat, an instinctual measure, done on reckless fear, a sheer accident. Of course, he was obviously alive (Luther <em>is </em>still <em> breathing, </em> after all), but Five just … needed to check. For as dumb (most of) his siblings were, he cared fr them. Not that he’d ever cooly admit it to anyone breathing or dead.</p><p>Luther stirs under the sudden touch, mumbling between slight gags that he’s <em>fine</em>. Five could feel himself sigh now, awkwardly patting Luther’s back. While Luther took a moment to get through his sudden nausea, Five’s eyes flicker over to his wounds. Gashes. They don’t look like knife gashes (he knows what those look like better than he does random bruises or scratches), nor do they look like lashes/burns (obviously). He squints-- no, these look entirely different. From Five’s rough estimation (and a bit of guessing, something he’d also never admit he does very often), it looks as if Luther has been digging his fingers into his palms. After all, Five isn’t an idiot, Luther’s body <em>is </em>strong, but it’s also incredibly durable. The only thing that can usually pierce Luther is either something that’d kill a normal human or, alternatively, <em> Luther himself. </em> He’s seen Luther take hits that most of them would be squealing in pain over, however, in hindsight, that may be a fault on Luther’s emotional state scrambling his tolerance for pain. Which, looking at him now, isn’t as well as Five once thought. Dark eye bags, tired demeanor, up and around at <em> Five’s </em>sleeping schedule-- none of which gave him must hope. Five inhales and exhales as if attempting to calm himself down. Why is he digging fingernails into his palms?</p><p>The smaller of the pair felt a sickening disgust in his stomach, eyes a bit wide, his mind pausing. Worry swept over him like a tsunami would a messy boat, coating him in a deep feeling of dread. Why was Luther hurting himself? Had <strong>Reginald</strong> ordered him to do so? Was Luther <em>suicidal</em>? What happened? Why? Is he okay? How long had he been doing this? Did he have more self-destructive tendencies?<br/>Could he help him?</p><p>“...uh. Five?” Luther asks, having at least slightly recovered by now, looking over with distinct worry.</p><p>“What?” Five almost spits, trance broken, focus finally on Luther as he is -- here.</p><p>A short pause follows Five’s words, the sudden spat of it making Luther halt for a moment. An instinctual moment to be sure, one Five will remember late into the night.</p><p>“...are you okay?” Luther continues, sounding small despite his gargantuan size, a quiet hesitation lingering before his sentence.</p><p>Five responds with a grunt and sight, before getting down to business. That was always something Luther admired within Five-- genuine, absolute, task-focused.</p><p>“Your hands. Why have you been hurting yourself?” The boy asks, bluntly, squinting at Luther.</p><p>“What? Oh.” Luther says, already forgetting, details becoming clearer as Five points at Luther’s large hands. </p><p>“Are you suicidal?” Five once again asks straightforwardly, tone not accusatory, but not comforting either. </p><p>Waves of emotion hide behind each word, almost making them shaky like a foundation threatened to tumble under the earthquake.</p><p>“Huh? What? No-- <em> Five </em>-- what--?”</p><p>“Your hands-- you’ve been digging your fingernails into your <em>hands</em>, Luther. You’re hurting yourself. For your information, I am neither <em>deaf </em> nor <em>blind. </em>”</p><p>Luther went silent at the other’s comment. His eyes traced his hand, still slightly bleeding, getting crimson lodged in his fingernails.</p><p>“...yeah,” Luther states, unable to counter with a diversion, statement, distraction--anything, really.</p><p>“Wh …. <em> What do you </em><b><em>mean</em> </b> “yeah” -- you can’t just -- you can’t just leave it at that-- you -- “ Five grumbles in what seems to be abstract frustration.</p><p>“Sorry! Sorry--I just...I just. I dunno,” Luther says, watching blood trickle down his palms, “It just happens.”</p><p>“Happens? <em> Luther </em> -- nothing simply <em>happens- </em> you are hurting yourself. That is, right now, within this room -- <em> your room </em> -- a major issue. You should-- no, <em> need </em>to talk to me. <em>Communicate</em>.”</p><p>Five became tense, knowing, as per usual, people were never his strong suit. But it was far worse when those people you can hardly work with are people you dearly care about. When those people are hurt and you cannot simply help them. He’d always found it harder to weave emotional wounds together, unlike physical stitching, which, in his opinion, was far easier to manage. Emotional scars were far deeper, and couldn’t be fixed with anything but time and patience. Both of which he usually had a tendency to run out of in the worst moments. Straightforwardness was his strong suit, he knew as such, so this? This whole <em>situation </em> was <em> excruciating </em>-- as much as he cared for his brother.</p><p>“I know … I <em> know</em>, Number Five,” Luther states, words starting small before a rumble finally grows within his throat.</p><p>The hatred and bitterness in his voice are unintentional, but with Five raising his tone, Luther must raise his. It is a battle that doesn’t matter, and yet he feels he must win it. </p><p>“Then why won’t you tell me what <em> really </em> happened with <strong>Reginald</strong>? You shouldn’t be <em> covering up </em> for that <em> idiot</em> regardless.”</p><p>Luther goes silent, hands shaking a bit, unable to look back at Five without some sort of shame. He chokes out a word, but it’s too quiet--- said through shaky language and garbled vowels. Five looks on expectantly, impatiently.</p><p>“I had a nightmare,” Luther begins, already expecting to be chastised like a bad dog.</p><p>He visibly braces himself, shutting his eyes, gulping down his own spit. But no teasing comes. Luther opens his eyes slowly once more, only to spy Five looking back at him, waiting for his brother to continue.</p><p>“...and?” Five asks, puzzled at the sudden halt, an intrusion of the narrative Luther was telling.</p><p>“...and...uh,” Luther mumbles, surprised, yet weary, “I went to uh … go talk to Dad.”</p><p>He watched Five’s face curl into disdain once more (like every other time it was mentioned) over the word ‘<em> Dad </em>’ -- a trait he consistently kept. Unlike Diego, it was always less clear to Luther as to why Five disliked Dad. Five, in general, was just … very hard to read. Or maybe Luther just couldn’t read people. Once again, Luther hoped it was the former rather than the latter.</p><p>“...he. Uh. Told me no one weak had nightmares. Which, uh, I guess is true,” Luther says, pausing for a moment, his entire body almost crumpling, wilting like a lily, “I’m … sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be… <em>stronger.</em> I’m sorry that I got all worked up over one … <em>stupid</em> <em>little</em> <b>nightmare</b>.”</p><p>Luther could feel the tears brimming at the corner of his eyes, holding back as much as he could. All his imperfections slowly began to bubble to the surface, the unfulfilled goals, the failures that he created, and shouldered. His body almost clamps up, eyes staring at the ground as if it had hurt him in some way. Five lets a long pause echo in the room-- a hand subtly placing itself on Luther’s shoulder. </p><p>Five, for the first time in what feels like years, sputters quietly, eyes softening, stomach churning with dread. He doesn’t know what to say. <em> Emotional vulnerability, a weakness </em> -- his mind reminds him, almost pestering him at the sight. But this wasn’t a weakness, no-- Five knew what weakness was-- Luther was doing the equivalent to a deer laying down to allow the hunter a good angle. Moving its neck intentionally so that it’s predator can get a better shot at it. He can see his brother’s tear-brimmed eyes, his shaking body, his fear, his <em>trust</em>. Five’s shoulders softened at the sight, unexpected, but not unwelcome. Luther, by no means, was weak-- physically, at least. He was surely a bit dumb, a fault Five always accounted for, but never waning. If he had any leader-like characteristics in that small brain of his, it’s that he always had solid footing. Even if he <em>also </em>had a stick up his ass at the same time. It was that stubbornness, something the family all shared in varying aspects, that made Luther unique to Five. The stubbornness to follow like a loyal dog, to beckon to his master’s heel, <strong>Reginald</strong>. Five stood next to the small, weak, quiet Luther-- hand still softly put on his shoulder. The child inhales and exhales, feeling older despite not being so. With a soft moment, Five mentally paces, before slowly hugging Luther.</p><p>It was an awkward side-hug, one both were wholly accustomed to. Genuine affection was never rampant in their family, only done in loose moments and necessary times on camera. Some of the others were more affectionate, such as Klaus or Allison (less so Allison), but Five and Luther lacked any physical contact. Five refused it, never much hugged, much less cuddled. Always independent, always headstrong-- there was no room for affectionate physical touches. Five rathered achievements (to get something done, to finish a task, the serotonin of a goal being finally reached) than physical responses (a hug, a pat on the shoulder, a smile that made his stomach churn), as always. Luther, on the other hand, refused out of odd pride, remaining leaderly in not letting anything slip. He once cried often as a younger child, but Reginald taught him the value of weeping-- an emotion unneeded. Luther learned quickly the exchange for feeling, for crying, for expressing-- weakness. And though, as much as he tried to hide it, covering his eyes, curling his palms, keeping behind locked doors, he knew he was weak.</p><p>But he never thought Five as weak.</p><p>No, Five was the pinnacle of ability and smarts. Well-studied, well-fought, well-accustomed-- Five wasn’t weak. Then why was he hugging him?</p><p>In all honesty, Five had no idea. Even in the hug, it felt foreign, confusing, alien. But it was the most straightforward solution. The easiest, simplest, easiest way to clear up issues, to have tender moments, and to be, at last, comforting. It was a temporary solution, he knew as such. It wasn’t good enough, no, he’d have to make a better solution in the nearby future. The two stayed silently intertwined for a moment, quit, slightly unaccustomed to affection, but still existing within the embrace. </p><p>“...Five,” Luther says, eventually, unable to halt his own curiosity.</p><p>“What?” Five snapped back, despite being enveloped within a hug.</p><p>“...Why did you hug me?”</p><p>Silence followed afterward, an unmentioned empathy whittling itself in between the two. Five doesn’t dare say a word back, his pride too strong to say the simple words on the tip of his tongue. Luther can feel the other’s hold on him tighten, a grip that said <em> I’m here </em>as much as it said <em> Don’t go. </em> Inhaling, exhaling, he tenderly holds the other, letting his own tears dry. The gesture was touching, making his shoulders soften and eyes shut. The hug was long and arduous, but comforting, genuinely soft, and relaxing. It was nice to know someone was there-- someone tangible-- someone alive. Not his ever-seeing father, as much as he idolized him, it was nice to have someone else. Anyone else. Especially family. The more family the better. Luther felt himself sink into the hug, giving into familial affection, finally letting his muscles calm and kindly go limp.</p><p>A flash erupted into his ears, almost causing Luther to collapse, visibly blinking in sheer confusion. His arms grasped at blank air, eyes going wide momentarily. There’s distinct, brief panic-- before his eyes move up. Five is standing nearby him, adjusting his uniform. Luther can’t help but chuckle a bit at such an antic. A hand of his own wipes tears away, despite them already being dried, now simply staining his own face.</p><p>“...I’ll go get band-aids,” Five states, cracking his neck fluently, before disappearing into a burst of sheer blue energy and light. </p><p>Luther has a feeling he won’t be back.</p><p>He is left, feeling warm, comforted, despite blood trickling down his hands and standing on his wood floor. Tender moments with family--genuine, tangible moments-- were always so little and too far inbetween. Luther let his own body slink fully onto the floor, back against the chiseled wood. He’d be thinking about this for quite a while-- he knew it-- he felt it. Five...hugging him. A secret of emotional tenderness both would probably keep to their graves. An exhale passed through the air-- but not one of disgust, instead, being one of relief. A small smile tugged at his lips as he closed his eyes, comforted, at least slightly.</p><p>Until a box of something smacked into his face.</p><p>It didn’t hurt-- he was far more durable than that-- but the action still warranted his attention. Standing there was Five, who, of course, was keeping his unsaid promises.</p><p>“If you’re going to sleep on the floor, at least do it with a pillow,” Five states, squinting, holding a stare of intense dissatisfaction.</p><p>Luther sat up slowly as the other spoke, looking over to what had been thrown at him. A box of band-aids. A new one that wasn’t crushed and destroyed. The bigger brother turned back to Five slowly, a soft yet delicate smile on his face.</p><p>“...Thanks.”</p><p>Five went quiet in response, speaking only to respond, not wanting to leave too much into the air, “Sure.”</p><p>The boy cleared his throat, watching Luther now, turning to face him.</p><p>“Sleep. I’ll be in my room if needed. Just <em>knock. </em> And for <em> fuck’s sake</em>, don’t talk to <strong>Reginald</strong> for shit like this,” Five states with a bit of a cocky sneer, as per usual.</p><p>Luther obediently nods, having a small, soft smile on his face. Words pass in thin air, not needing to be said. </p><p>“...Sleep well, Five,” Luther says, softly, only to get a chuckle out of Five.</p><p>And with that, Five disappears in a flash of light. Luther stands from where he was sitting, walking over to his bed, flopping on it, looking at the ceiling with that small smile still on his face. He falls to sleep that night with not a single nightmare. </p><hr/><p> </p>
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